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Second Chances V2 Announcements
The announcements for Second Chances V2 occur daily at 9 A.M. Prologue written by Deamon. Announcements written by MurderWeasel, backslash, The Homeless Beard, and Yugikun Prologue June 9, 2017: Denton, New Jersey Summer was fast approaching for P.J. Hobbs Senior High, and many of the students were eager to be free of school to enjoy their holidays. There were still tests to do and projects to finish, but at least for a day that had all been put on hold. Today was a trip day. More specifically, the seniors were all going to the aquarium. It had become a summer tradition for the school to take the seniors somewhere interesting but still educational for a day before finals; doing so helped the students relieve some of the stress of the tough summer period but also still ostensibly promoted learning. The last bus in the convoy was having a bad time, however. They were apparently having some sort of engine troubles, and so had been left behind by the other buses, in theory to catch up later. Everyone had been instructed to stay on the bus. That started to become an issue as the temperature rose. The rising heat was made even worse as windows on the bus were all jammed shut and the air conditioning was broken. Despite the students' protests, they were unable to disembark the vehicle because they were pulled over on the highway and as such it was a "health and safety risk." Mr. Gary Dolph was left to sit and occasionally question the driver as to how much longer they would have to wait. The man had promised it wouldn't be too long before walking outside to make a call, but when he returned he was tutting and shaking his head. "We're going to have to go and get this sorted out. Just a trip to the depot, and once we get there we can switch buses." "Can't you just call a replacement to here?" Mr. Dolph asked, trying and failing to mask his displeasure. The bus driver shook his head as he returned to his seat and snapped the belt buckle shut. "No can do. We've got a guy on holiday and our backup driver called in sick, and everyone else is already on a job. It'll be fine though. It'll be get to the warehouse, unload, onto the new bus, and go. Ten minutes max. Fifteen if anyone needs the toilet." Mr. Dolph rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed. "Fine. I guess we have no choice." He stood from his seat and delivered the news to the children, who mostly reacted with groans, annoyance, and complaints. Cries about the windows and air-conditioning situation were also thrown around. Truthfully, Mr. Dolph could hardly blame them. This was supposed to be a fun, relaxed day out to the aquarium, and now they were going to be late, not to mention the hassle of an exchange at the bus depot. Rubbing the bridge of his nose again, Mr. Dolph he sat down as the bus pulled away. He hoped the temperature wouldn't rise anymore than it already had. The on-board conditions of the bus wouldn't do anything to help them, and it was set up perfectly to become a sweat box. Being crammed in an unintentional sauna full of stinky teens was the last thing he needed. He tried to think happier thoughts. He had a long holiday planned over the summer. He and his fiancée were going on a tour of Southeast Asia (paid by her salary, of course—a public school teacher could make enough to spend a weekend in Albany). He was counting down to the final bell right along with the students. They weren't going straight to the airport, of course, but after the week allotted to ensure all his end of year paperwork was in order it was off to Seoul. As Mr. Dolph drowned out the grumbles of the students by day-dreaming about his eventual holiday, the bus turned off the highway and down a narrow and seemingly-abandoned street, ending up outside a dingy, graffiti riddled warehouse. He frowned as he turned to face the driver who merely gave a half-shrug. "Kids like tagging it or something, I dunno. It's not the main depot, but it serves this district. Otherwise we'd have to go an hour the other direction." A gate at the front of the warehouse slid open and as they drove through they were waved further inside by a pair of severe-looking men with assault rifles, wearing what looked like helmets or gasmasks. It was then Mr. Dolph started to realize exactly what was happening. Much as he tried to deny it, he felt his heart rate increase and sweat form on his brow. But no, surely he was being paranoid. It was a bad part of town. They needed security, right? And what could he do anyways? Seconds later, when they were fully inside the warehouse, the bus stopped. Mr. Dolph heard the gate rumble closed behind them. The children had gone silent. The front doors opened, but the driver didn't get up; instead he pushed the seat back, raised his feet, and rested them on the wheel, whistling softly to himself. The pair of armed men came around and climbed aboard the bus, followed by a larger, upbeat looking man in a suit. Despite his hefty appearance, he moved with a practiced ease and had a glint behind his eyes that put Mr. Dolph even more on edge then he already was. Bringing up the rear was what Mr. Dolph assumed was a woman, but he found it hard to tell as she was wearing bulky body amour and what was definitely a gasmask. Unlike his three masked companions, the more rotund man appeared to be unarmed. Mr. Dolph hurriedly glanced out the window, and caught movement on the edges of the warehouse—there were more people out there, but he couldn't discern much detail. He thought they were also armed, though. "What's going on here?" Mr. Dolph said, working his way to his feet, fighting the shakiness that had suddenly overtaken him. He wasn't a fighter, but the hair on his neck was tingling and he was starting to wonder just how far he could get if he made a break for it. The portly man chuckled. "Nothing to worry about, sir. Just a quick little detour. We're the DEA"—he flashed a badge so quickly Mr. Dolph couldn't see anything besides that it was shiny and brass—"and we've just got to carry out an inspection on buses in this area. Drug trafficking. There's a recent epidemic, you see. If you'd like to step outside, one of my team here will explain the situation to you." One of the masked men in stepped out of the bus, and Mr. Dolph moved to follow him, but then stopped himself. There was no more masking the thought that had been rumbling uneasily in his mind since first he caught sight of the weapons. That incident, five years ago, an entire busload of students forced to fight to the death. It'd been posted online in some sick broadcast. He shook his head. "No, I don't think I'll be going outside just yet. I'll be staying here with my students. Can I see that badge ag—" Mr. Dolph never got to finish his question, as a bullet pierced his temple, sending bits of brain and skull splattering into the front side window of the bus. His body crumpled to the floor, blood continuing to leak out of the wound. The students, who had been watching and conversing among themselves in a mixture of confusion and trepidation, now began to scream and panic, but the masked figures quieted them by leveling their rifles. The rotund man pulled a face and looked over at the bus driver, who was holding a pistol. "That wasn't very dramatic, Shamino." He looked back down at the body of Mr. Dolph. "Then again, I can't say I'd rate his abilities as a teacher. He was clinging so desperately to his ignorance. 'See my badge again?' Really? This was probably for the best." The driver, apparently called Shamino, just shrugged and pulled a gas mask on over his head. The portly man closed his eyes briefly before resuming his smile and clapping his hands together. "Regardless, I'd like your attention, children. I hope you won't make my associates enforce it." He gestured at his armed companions, who had already done a pretty good job of clarifying his wishes via body language. "My name is Victor Danya, and as you can probably gather from the state of your former caretaker, I'm the new custodian of your little field trip. But don't worry. I intend to keep things much more lively around here than my predecessor." The bus remained silent. Danya grinned and gave a small shrug. "Not my best opening, I'll admit." He brushed down his suit jacket and cleared his throat before continuing. "Unfortunately, I have to announce a change in the itinerary for your trip today. I'm sorry to inform you that you won't be going to the aquarium. Oh, but don't worry: you'll still learn plenty of valuable lessons about the natural order—y'know, the food web, predator-prey relationships, so on. You see, your new destination is an island we have set up specifically for you. Upon arrival, you will be outfitted with weapons. You will have collars fitted around your necks, and you will kill each other. Once only one of you remains, they will be returned home. Really, doesn't this all just sound much more exciting than watching some fish swim around an over-sized bowl?" The bus remained silent. "That's what I expected," Danya said with a sigh and a small shake of his head. "No one ever appreciates it until they experience it themselves." He stepped forward, over the body of Mr. Dolph, as he continued to speak. "As you can tell"—and here he gestured to the slowly expanding pool of blood coming from remained of Mr. Dolph's skull—"we're not joking about this. We expect you to do as we say. No resistance—not that you have much choice or chance, since we have all the guns on this bus." Despite Danya's upbeat demeanor, the atmosphere on the bus was tense. It was clear that at moment more brutal violence could be unleashed, should that be what his whim dictated. The armed figures kept their weapons pointed. Outside, the others had stepped closer, and they too were armed and masked. The many different threats rested in the stale air almost suffocating the students. "Let me give you a little more detail, just so as we're all clear on what is expected of everyone here," Danya said. "You'll each receive supplies and a randomly drawn weapon. You will also be fitted with one of our very trendy and fashionable collars. They contain explosives, however, so if you try to remove them, go somewhere we've told you not to go, or just generally make a nuisance of yourself, we can push a button and pop, there you go." Danya made the gesture of an explosion with his right hand. "I'm sure I don't have to explain how messy that can be. "Now, I know that you are probably thinking that you'll never stoop so low as to kill one of your classmates. I know you're already fantasizing about how if you all join together you can take us down and escape. Before you put your eggs into that little basket, though, please keep in mind our rules: at most, only one person will survive. Furthermore, if ever twenty-four hours pass without a death, we'll just detonate all the collars, and nobody gets to go home. So, the question I have for you is, why not you? "Look at the person you're sitting next to. They may be thinking right now that they'll be the special one. And hey, maybe they're right. But maybe they're not. Maybe you've got what it takes. I believe that every one of you has the potential—that's what makes the whole thing interesting. "There are also cameras set up all around our island so that we can keep track of you. We take monitoring your activities seriously, and in case you were wondering, messing with the cameras is absolutely making a nuisance of yourself and will probably lead to us blowing your head off. "Hmm, what else? What else? Ah, yes! Every day, roughly around nine in the morning, I'll make an announcement telling you who's died and who's been killing. I'll also tell you some areas where you can't go, which we call 'Danger Zones.' It's an easy enough concept to remember. Danger Zones fall into the category of 'places we've told you not to go.' I'm sure you have a good idea what happens if you go in a Danger Zone, yes? That's right, you explode. Congratulations. "Once our little game has concluded, I'll have a meeting with the winner, and then pretty soon they'll be able to go home." Danya paused and appeared to think for a moment, before snapping his fingers. "Oh, right, of course. They get to go home, just as long as they've killed at least one person. Silly me." He shook his head and chuckled lightly. "If they haven't managed to notch their belt but somehow survive anyways, well, I'll just throw them into our next game and hopefully they'll have learned their lesson. "As for waiting for help from above or abroad: nobody's coming to save you. And, hey, if I'm wrong and the marines turn up, I'll just detonate all your collars, so you'd better hope nobody gets cute. In fact, I strongly advise you get this whole thing sorted out as quickly as possible. It'd be a shame if it all turned out to be a waste of time because somebody messes with us just as you're about to win. "Well, thanks for listening. Ta ta for now." With that, Danya turned and strolled off the bus. Two seconds later, he hopped back up the steps. "Sorry, I forgot to ask if anyone had any questions." No one on the bus moved, and Danya grinned, the glint behind his eyes clear for all to see. "Didn't think there would be. Rice, do it." As Danya turned on his heel and hopped off the bus once more, one of the masked men pushed a button near the steering wheel and the air conditioning unit shuddered to life. A light hissing sound started as a gas began to fill the bus. The students quickly began slumping over or slouching down in their seats as they fell prey to the effects of the gas and were rendered unconscious. By the time they awoke, they would be on the island and the game would be in progress. The First Announcement June 10, 2017: Washington DC "Reporting as ordered, sir." Lieutenant Colonel Max Briggs snapped a salute, standing at attention in the office. He hoped his nervousness wasn't showing—with anybody else, he'd've been certain of the impassive nature of his face, but with his superior, things worked a little differently. "At ease, Max." The room was small and poorly-lit, something exaggerated by the mostly-shut blinds behind the desk that nonetheless cast thin stripes of illumination over the desk and the man behind it. Briggs' superior was a man who looked younger than he himself was, wiry with tousled blond hair and that almost-perpetual lazy smile. Brigadier-General David Adams combined frightening competence and innovation with boyish good looks and a manner that could turn so casual Briggs wondered how he didn't wash out of basic but then snap to full professionalism at the drop of a pin. It was, Briggs assumed, these qualities that had landed him at the head of the government's force pursuing the organization headed by the terrorist known as Victor Danya. But there was something else to Adams, something Briggs couldn't explain or define, and it was this other quality that had presumably led Adams down the road to treason. Certainly it was what had lured Briggs along for that ride. "So," Adams continued, "you have something to report." Briggs swallowed, feeling his spine stiffen even as his posture loosened. This room was secure—they'd been over that time and again—but he still always felt anxious. He wanted to commit this all to writing, no matter how counterintuitive leaving a trail would be. "They're definitely behind the Denton disappearance," Briggs said. "The bus was routed to a warehouse and from there a number of trucks delivered 'cargo' to a small private airfield outside the city. Even accounting for the inevitable switching and distractions, the trajectories and possibilities were pretty limited." He stepped forwards, squinting slightly. Adams' expression hung unchanged, but it was the neutral look his face defaulted to so it meant nothing. The man's fingers drummed against the top of his desk, but despite its clean lacquer and their seeming speed they made absolutely no sound. "We were able to quietly destroy the security footage and scuttle a number of the records," Briggs continued. "Some of the others the company is refusing to share—their lawyers are fighting us over confidentiality, there's word the ACLU might get involved, and so on. It'll stall long enough, and we'll look better when it does resolve." Adams nodded. His drumming came to a stop for a three-count, then resumed. "And the search?" he said. "Mostly combing down in the gulf and in Indonesia," Briggs replied. "We have them fairly convinced they might not pull an island twice in a row, though. They're committing a lot of manpower to the Southern border." "The prez is very happy about that," Adams volunteered. This drumming cycle, he let his nails rattle against the desktop, the sudden staccato sound causing Briggs to jerk back to attention. The next cycle was silent again, and Adams displayed no awareness of Briggs' unease—something very different, Briggs had learned, from actually being unaware. "He thinks when we find them down there, the public will be happier with the wall." Briggs snorted, but internally noted that Adams had once again asked him a question to which he clearly already knew the answer. Briggs was, in the long run, expendable. He knew this. If it all hit the fan, odds were good he'd take the blame, get buried by Adams and spend the rest of his life in federal prison—assuming, of course, Adams and the ones pulling his strings didn't just make Briggs disappear. The turn would come as suddenly as the noise of Adams' drumming, and the routine would resume just as smoothly as the silence, only with one minor player out of the picture. Briggs had no attachment to the deaths of American citizens. The attacks horrified him almost as much as they did the populace at large. And yet, here he was, making sure their second occurrence could come off without a hitch. And for what? Not, certainly, for the exorbitant payments that appeared in his accounts every month; he hadn't touched a cent. Not out of spite or dissatisfaction or any great moral stance. Not out of a joy taken in being part of something big. No, every time he mulled this over, he came to the same conclusion: he did it for Adams. Adams, who Briggs loved and feared and respected and hated. Adams had been there with Briggs for the past five years, and while Briggs now suspected the man had been compromised from the very first, it didn't really matter. What was important was that Adams made it all seem simple and obvious and right. Even as he saw the knife sliding towards his back, he could do nothing but dance to the jig his superior fiddled. "They think it's their idea," Briggs said. "I lodged token protests." "Good initiative, Max." Adams stood, stretched, and shook his head like he was tossing substantially more hair than he had. "You keep doing you. Tell 'em they'll catch that snipe eventually. You're a star." "Thank you, sir," Briggs said. "I've gotta make an appearance with the press," Adams continued. "Everyone's pretty sure what's happened by now, so I need to issue a few neither-confirm-nor-denials. But then we've got some other orders you should hear about. Also, they think the broadcast's going to start in about a week. We might be able to score some points if we beat that by a couple hours. Sets up some good publicity for 'em, too." "Yes, sir," Briggs said again. "Right. At ease. Didn't I say that already? Anyways, dismissed. We'll catch up tonight." Sunday, June 11, 2017, 9:00 A.M.: Undisclosed Location "Gooood morning, children," Danya's voice echoed across the island for the first time, sending a few birds scattering from the trees and roofs, "and congratulations to those of you who can hear me for surviving your first day here!" He paused for a moment to let his greeting sink in, and to allow anyone not yet fully awake to listen properly to his words. "Ah, you kids are some real go-getters. You've already put the previous contestants in our little game to shame in terms of both Day One numbers and brutality! It makes me proud to see so many of you jumping at the chance we've given you." Danya's smile was audible in his voice. "But of course for every one of you who succeeds, at least one must fall. Let's see who stumbled right at the starting line. "We've got a twofer for you right off the bat. Richard Ormsby took a tumble over the edge of the ravine courtesy of William Lohman, who followed him shortly afterwards and was washed out to sea. Thank you, boys, for giving us such an entertaining little opening number to show everyone back home." Danya chuckled into the microphone and let it carry. "Congratulations to our first killer to get out of there with her own skin intact, Miss Sophie McDowell. Jeanette Buendia asked Sophie for a favor, and she certainly delivered by choking the life out of her friend. It warms my heart to see you following the spirit of the game so diligently. "Elsewhere in the woods, Yasmin Carrol lost her legs and then her life to Katarina Konipaski, who finally managed to hit what she was aiming at. Points for enthusiasm, if not for style. "Jay Harland scored his first goal and sent Lyndi Thibodeaux to the sidelines permanently when he took a meat cleaver to her head. I do so enjoy watching an athlete with versatile skills. Not to be outdone in the stabbing and chopping department, Bridgette Sommerfeld cut Panya Bishara's dreams short by cutting open her neck." Danya cleared his throat. "Gentleman on the island, take note: the girls are outdoing you by miles so far. You'll want to step it up. Don't be like Vincent Holway, who fell into a tar pit and went the way of the dinosaurs. Whichever one of you gets out of here in the end should send some archeologists a note to go dig him out, I'm sure he'll be a very interesting addition to some museum's collection. "And, lastly, one man who did take things to heart, Aaron Chalmers. By which I mean he took a bullet to the chest courtesy of Everett Taylor. Miscommunication causes so many problems for you teenagers, I swear you just don't know how to talk to each other anymore." He clicked his tongue admonishingly. "That's it for now, kids. Remember who to look out for, and go ahead and scope out some targets for yourself sooner rather than later if you want to live. I'll check back in with those of you left again tomorrow morning. Until then, anyone still hanging around the Isolated Cabin will want to clear out unless you're not very attached to your neck. "I look forward to seeing what you have in store for us today. Goodbye for now, children!" The Second Announcement JANUARY 13, 2013: NEWSFORCE 1 NEW YORK STUDIO Marcus Nylund stared at the boy on the stage being mic'd up by a tech, lit against a backdrop of conservative blue that he'd fought and scratched for in the pre-production meetings. He'd argued that deeper shades brought out sallow skin, and the bags underneath the boy's eyes were more pronounced in lighter, robin-egg shades, so striking the right balance had been paramount. Marcus' headset dangled from his neck, chatter barking intermittently as the news crew hustled and bustled in the darkness. His own crew intermingled with the studio's, hooking cameras up to broadband internet, checking feeds on the flash-streams that would host the video a split second after airing. It was cutting edge tech, instant photo-realistic film from lens to screen, and one he and his had developed over a long period of time. Briefly, he considered the initial plan—wildlife reserves, livestreaming zebras and tigers. Marcus had even began work on camouflage for the units—how to hide them so that the animals didn't roll on by and screw with them. People could watch the animals in their natural habitats: fighting, eating, doing the animal kingdom thing. Problem was that the tech was expensive, and nobody had wanted it. Well, other than shitty talk show hosts with a scoop. "He hot?" Shannon, his personal assistant, slid up beside him, chewing on the end of her pen. "I guess, but he's not my type." "Har. Is he mic'd?" "He's mic'd," came the dry reply, as Marcus got a thumbs-up from Donald in the control room. Shannon stood there beside him for a moment, both their pairs of eyes watching the boy who'd gone through hell. Shoulder to shoulder, they observed as the count was given, as the lights went down around them, leaving only the circular, well-lit stage. "Broadcast is good," Donald said through the comm. "Tighten up on 4." "I looked into that thing," Shannon said softly, and Marcus half-turned towards her, still looking at the boy. "Some data came back. The analyst we got can prove from the footage that the designs they used were quite different than ours. It seems like they had the same idea as us and got there first." Marcus didn't respond, still watching as the news anchor started softballing the Reid kid questions. Shannon watched him in the dark for a moment, and then said, "They're back at the office if you want to take a look." "This blue is still too light. Kid looks like he hasn't slept in a week." Shannon looked at him quizzically. Marcus shook his head. "I'll get to them later. I want to watch this." Shannon walked off, leaving him to observe a kid who, for the second time, was on display for the world to see. Cutting edge tech. Flash streams. All over the globe instantaneously and in high definition. "Their own animal kingdom," Marcus muttered. Monday, June 12, 2017, 9:00 A.M.: Undisclosed Location Victor Danya settled into his chair with a comfortable sigh. His coffee was waiting on his desk, prepared just the way that he liked it. He had gotten an excellent night's sleep. Life was good for Danya. Not so much for the unfortunates on the island, but that was the way that the proverbial cookie crumbled. That was just how life went. Perhaps someday their lucky winner would appreciate that. The number of deaths had remained steady throughout the past day, but the violence of some of them had intensified. A higher rate of kills might have had more impact, a little dash of panic to further motivate the remaining kids, but all in all Danya was pleased. He skimmed his list one final time and turned the microphone on. "Hello, children," he said. "A lovely morning to you all once again! I hope you didn't miss the sound of my voice too much; those of you listening should be glad that you're still around to hear it. Eight more of your classmates haven't been so lucky. "Starting us off strong, Blaine Eno and Michael Crowe provided quite the show. Drama, blood, tears—it was all very entertaining, but sadly our friend Blaine had to make his exit stage left with the help of an improvised bludgeon. Take note, kids: even if you haven't got your hands on a real weapon just yet, a little creativity goes a long way. "Oh, and then Simon Leroy bled out, from injuries that Mr. Eno inflicted and those added by Crowe. It was kind of a drag after the previous performance." To punctuate his point, Danya gave the microphone an exaggerated yawn. "Next up, Saachi Nidal took a cue from her partner's earlier performance and split Michael Maxwell's head open. Practice makes perfect." Danya let out an audible sigh into the microphone as he came to the next name. "Now we must bid farewell to some of our first day killers. Jay Harland got himself hurt, and his friend Miss Nidal opted to put him out of his misery. Maybe she'll pay tribute to him by naming that cleaver after him or something. "Another one of our early rising stars, Bridgette Sommerfeld, bit off more than she could chew and took a tumble into the tar pits courtesy of Wendy Fischer. It took her a good, long time to die, too. You kids really should be more careful playing around those pits." Vital signals could be a tricky business. The collars could pick them up for a while after the person wearing them was effectively out of the running—the cost of security features designed to make very, very certain that deaths were confirmed. Danya personally didn't mind too much; a slightly delayed report could add another layer of confusion and suspicion to keep the students on their toes. They didn't have to believe that his every word was gospel, they just had to believe enough. One bad apple, and all that. And speaking of slightly-delayed reports... "Jasmine King made her explosive entry onto our list by stomping Paris Ardennes to a pulp, and then putting a bullet in Lance Adams not too long after. Your enthusiasm is admirable, Miss King. Keep it up. "Finally, here's a little PSA from Katarina Konipaski to you all: just because you got away from someone once doesn't mean they can't come back for a rematch. Eris Marquis didn't keep that in mind, and now her brains are all over the ground." Danya's dismissive shrug wasn't visible, but his tone of voice conveyed it adequately enough. "Now, if you've been itching to return to the Isolated Cabin, you can. Anyone camping out in the Mess Hall, on the other hand, should get moving unless you want this meal to be your last. "That's all for today, children. Keep up the good work!" The Third Announcement Tuesday, June 13, 2017, 9:00 A.M.: Undisclosed Location Things were falling into a routine now. Danya had warned his subordinates to not get complacent with their monitoring of the island, but so far everything was progressing smoothly. There were enough shakers and movers to keep the less proactive motivated, and no troublemakers had shown themselves yet. Knock on wood, of course. "Good morning once again, kiddies!" echoed a now-familiar voice across the island. "It's your favorite Uncle Danya, here again to tell you how pleased I am about all the fresh new faces that we're featuring on our announcement this morning. "Speaking of faces, Bunny Barlowe got slapped in hers with a fish." Danya paused for a chuckle, not bothering to lean away from the microphone. "I don't know if that was her main motivation for shooting Everett Taylor full of holes. I just wanted to let you all know that it happened." He indulged in another few seconds of genuine laughter before continuing. "Clair Belvedere made some poor life choices when she decided to try robbing Katarina Konipaski. No prizes for guessing how that worked out for her. "Here's a fun fact, kids: did you know that slipping and falling in the shower is one of the leading causes of death in the United States? Amanda White demonstrated for us and, unfortunately, became another statistic. Speaking of statistics, here's one: zero percent of helpless blind kids who fall asleep around people with guns live to see another day. You can thank Aria Samuels for finding that one out for you, with a little assistance from Natali Greer and her rifle." Danya thought to himself that he had a good rhythm going on today. Just the right mix of zingers, sarcasm, and motivation to really get the blood pumping in the surviving students. Pity that it took him a while to really hit his stride, but practice made perfect. Out loud, he continued, "I'm sorry to say that one of yesterday's MVPs met her end. Brigid Paxton delivered a little karmic justice to Jasmine King via polearm. Take solace, Miss King: in the end, the real victory was the friends you murdered along the way." Too corny? Maybe, but he was really feeling it right now. "Poor life choices made an encore appearance for our next few deaths. Kasumi White—no relation to Amanda—failed to properly treat her injuries and fell prey to fatal infection. Then, Sebastien Bellamy wouldn't stop running his mouth, so Miranda Millers shut him up with a bullet to the face. And finally—wait for it—'Tessa Blackridge' got so worked up about something or other that she managed to shoot herself without even trying. Truly astounding." Danya slow clapped for good measure on that last one. "Next up, Saachi Nidal wasn't content to let our new killers take all the credit today and got another notch in her belt by stabbing Jason Andrews in the back. Not to be outdone, Katarina Konipaski popped up again to fill Alice Gilman full of lead, for a strong finish to our third day. "Now kiddos, thanks to all your hard work and a few hilarious accidents, your numbers are really starting to dwindle. Because of that, it's time to start bringing everyone a little closer together. The Mess Hall is no longer a Danger Zone, but The Shipping Yard, The Tunnels, The Lighthouse, and The Field of Flowers are all off-limits for at least today. Some of you had better get moving. "For those of you who have been embracing the spirit of the game, hang in there and keep it up. The rest of you had better make a choice, and soon. Time is going to run out before you know it. "Have a nice day!" The Fourth Announcement Wednesday, June 14, 2017, 9:00 A.M.: Undisclosed Location Victor Danya supposed that it was only fitting that some of the contestants on the island would try to pull something the moment he was getting into a routine. Inconsequential as the attempt was in the grand scheme of the game, he suspected that this might only be the beginning; desperation drove some people to embrace the rules, and others to attempt to pry their collars off despite the warnings. He wasn't really worried, but he wasn't above the urge to knock on wood, either. Danya believed in stacking the deck. ...Oh well. He could take it as it came. If one of the children acted out, one of the adults could just put them in their place, just like any other classroom in the world. Simple as that. There was little point in worrying. If anything, nerves were a distraction. Right now, all he needed to do was put his effort into what was honestly among the best parts of his job. "Good morning, children!" Danya called, as the speakers across the island crackled to life. "I know it's been a while since you've last heard me speak, but in my absence springs good news: if you're listening to this, you've made it beyond the halfway point of our game. If you want to win, all you need to do is stay alive for a couple more days, outlast the other half of your classmates, and you'll be back home in no time." He paused and sat up straighter in his chair. Let the contestants ruminate on that news for a moment. After a few seconds, he continued. "Of course, that's easier said than done, and quite a few of your classmates have failed to make it to the point that you have, so without further ado, I'll get right to the announcements." He let loose an 'ahem,' an exaggerated clearing of the throat. "The first to fall yesterday was one Adonis Alba, who fell for a trap set by Saachi Nidal and took a cleaver to the face for his troubles. Maybe if his head wasn't made of meat it wouldn't have been so easily split open, but I digress. "Next to die was Damion Castillo, who found himself unable to escape the Shipping Yard in time. Oddly enough, it seems as if he tried to go the same way as his girlfriend, but just like her he managed to fail. Young love seems to pierce through any barrier, doesn't it, kids?" An exaggerated, wistful sigh followed by a giggle, before he continued. "One enjoyable part of doing these announcements is seeing familiar faces, those who go above and beyond to show what they can do. In addition to Ms. Nidal, yesterday we had Bunny Barlowe, who shot Brigid Paxton several times after a conversation gone sour, and Sophie McDowell, who sent a hammer into the back of Clio Gabriella's head. Keep it up, girls, you're doing great work. "Another perk of the job is seeing the new faces, the people who hear what others have done and decide to take a little bit of the fun themselves. Take Scarlett McAfee, for example, who stabbed Tania Chell in the stomach and eye after the world's worst heart to heart, and Kris Hartmann, who gave Rachael Langdon a hug so hard that dear Rachael ended up choking to death. I'd say that the both of you need to work on showing support to your fellows, but everyone expresses affection in different ways, don't they?" A brief pause, followed by a laugh louder than anything Danya had given before. "Now here's something a little frisky, for those who enjoy the more... risqué parts of our show. Ramona Shirley and Zubin Wadia decided to go under the covers together, and whatever happened there seemed to blow Zubin's mind. Well, blow his mind along with his collar and the rest of his head, but the devil's in the details, which we'll never know, as Saachi Nidal decided to interrupt and carve Ramona up shortly afterwards. You be the judge of what happened between Zubin and Ramona. I've sure got my theory. "Last but not least, Bunny Barlowe made an encore performance for us by sniping Sarah Miller. I'd like to note that for the second day in a row, the girls have absolutely dominated the charts in terms of kills. Just think of how socially progressive you're all being! I'm proud, I really am." "Now, the Shipping Yard and the Tunnels are open to you again, but the Lighthouse and the Field of Flowers remain off-limits. Additionally, the Coastal Woods, Scorched Ruin, The Lake, and The Showers are all Danger Zones now. It's time to start getting a little closer to your peers. "Other than that, there's nothing else that needs to be said, other than the fact that we here at the Arthro Taskforce wish for all of you to have another exciting day. Byeeeeeeeeeee!" The Fifth Announcement Wednesday, June 14, 2017, 11:45 P.M.: Toronto, Ontario Click. “-still no official word from Washington on the possible link between the disappearances and the 2012 incident-” Click. “-searching the southern US border and into the Gulf for any sign of-” Click. “-survivor Nicholas Reid was unavailable for comment-” Click. The TV blinked off and Adam set the remote aside with a sigh. You couldn’t get away from the news lately, even on the opposite end of the continent from where the US government was carrying out its searches. Locals were even on-edge; New Jersey was practically next door, as far as the United States went. Most schools in the area had let out by now though, and Adam occupied a comfortable middle ground between the ages of any kids who could relate to the missing New Jersey students and any parents who would lay awake at night wondering what might happen to their own teenagers. Awful as the possibilities for those kids were, he shouldn’t have been losing any sleep over it. He’d always been an over-thinker, though, and with the whirlwind of breaking news throughout the week, Adam hadn’t been able to get the kidnapping—and they were acknowledging that it was probably a kidnapping now, even with no notice from the kidnappers to show for it yet—out of his head. Which was why he was still sitting on his couch watching late-night TV and working his way through a six-pack instead of laying comfortably in his bed and snuggling his hot girlfriend, like any normal guy in his mid-twenties would be. Adam let out a derisive snort at his own self-deprecation. There was nothing good on TV—hardly anything on at all right now besides more depressing news—and he was down to his last beer. Time to turn in with the aforementioned hot girlfriend instead of wallowing in other people’s misery, even if he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He stood and stretched, grunting as his back popped. Not as young as he used to be, for sure. Turning geriatric at the ripe old age of 28, and any future children still a hypothetical twinkle in his eye, if that. Nothing that should keep him dwelling on what might be happening to people he would never know. He gathered up his empty beer cans and shuffled into the kitchen to deposit them in the trash before making the journey back through the living room and to the bedroom. He tried to move quietly and mostly succeeded; five and a half beers left him buzzed, but not enough that he would need to turn the lights on to navigate. City lights filtered in through the closed blinds, leaving the apartment washed in muted gray and blue. Adam made it almost to the bed without incident and then stubbed his toe on a stray pair of shoes that he had left on the floor and forgotten about. “Ow, shit!” He clapped a hand over his mouth, but it was too late. There was a stirring of movement from the bed, and Adam sighed. Carefully picking his way in case further obstacles made themselves known, Adam reached the bed and slid under the covers. “Sorry,” he whispered. He received a half-asleep grunt and a light swat to the shoulder in reply. A minute of adjusting later, he settled his head onto his pillow with a sigh. Despite the alcohol and the late hour, he still felt wide awake. Adam stared at the wall, watching the occasional patch of light from cars outside float across it. He lay still for what felt like a long time, but when he glanced at the digital clock on his bedside table, he saw to his dismay that it hadn’t even been half an hour. He sighed in frustration—louder than he should have, judging by the movement at his side. “What’s the matter with you?” Amanda’s voice was still slurred with sleep as she rolled over to blink at him. “Sorry,” he said again. “Just… got a lot on my mind, I guess.” “Toldja to stop watching the news.” “I know, I know, I just… I dunno. I just keep wondering about stuff. Like... do you ever think about what things might have been like if your dad ever made it big in politics? He might’ve had to deal with shit like that.” Amanda sighed this time, folding her hands underneath her head and giving Adam a thoughtful look through the darkness. “I don’t think about it much,” she admitted. “I don’t know. In hindsight, I guess I’m a little relieved he decided to stick with the law firm after the first time didn’t work out. Might’ve been harder to emigrate to be with my dumb boyfriend if my dad was some government kook.” She gave him a smile with a teasing edge to conceal its fondness. Adam snorted. “Boyfriend, huh? Bet he’s not good enough for you.” He wrapped one arm around her waist to pull her close, and they tangled comfortably together. Amanda rubbed his back. “I try to focus on the things that I can change, and to not worry about the things that I can’t,” she said. “You try it, and maybe you’ll get some sleep.” “Yeah,” Adam muttered. Sooner rather than later, Amanda’s breathing had deepened and slowed as she drifted back off to sleep. Adam kept staring at the wall, thoughts racing despite Amanda’s advice. Sometimes you just couldn’t help but wonder about things, even if they had nothing to do with you. He kept wondering, but the early hours of the morning crept peacefully up on Toronto, and eventually, Adam Dodd slept. --- Thursday, June 15, 2017, 9:00 A.M.: Undisclosed Location Almost a week in, now. Victor Danya wasn’t surprised that a few more troublemakers had reared their heads in the past day, but he was equally unsurprised that their efforts had come to nothing of consequence. He wasn’t in the business of making sloppy mistakes. Besides, by this point… well, by the time any outside attention was drawn to the island, it was likely that Danya and his guests would be done with all that they needed to do. The now-familiar sound of the island’s speakers crackling to life filled the air. “Good morning once again, kids,” Danya began, “and congratulations to those of you who can hear me for lasting almost one whole week on our lovely little vacation island! I know the work week can be long, but don’t fret; Friday is just around the corner. Of course, before we can celebrate the arrival of the weekend, we’ll need to go over who won’t be seeing it. “This morning’s Darwin Award goes to Natalie Chauncey who thought that it would be a good idea to try climbing down the side of the ravine and shortly thereafter became seagull food. “In much more exciting news, we had a lovely little Last Supper down at the tar pits. First, Wendy Fischer took out Felicia LaChapelle and Sophie McDowell with some poisoned soup, and then Irene Djezari bagged some big game by harpooning James Mulzet. "And finally, Christopher Schwartz took a dive off the cliffs in a quieter moment. Unfortunately, it looks like nobody else has decided to take any action, leaving us with a very slow news day. I'm quite disappointed, children. If it weren't for a few of your suicidal classmates or a select number of this island's female population taking the initiative, we might have had to activate all of your collars. Where would the fun be in that?" A low chuckle emanated after a brief pause. The truth was, the announcement had been finalized maybe an hour and a half ago, and even then a number of edge cases had been withheld; in all likelihood, the actual death count was slightly higher than what had been officially tallied. Still, this was a fair warning, a reminder for all of them to continue picking up the pace, to avoid getting lax in the final stretch. "I'm afraid that's all the news we have for today. I'm sure you kids will be able to follow up with some more action tomorrow." Things looked like they were beginning to wind down as the numbers dwindled ever further. A drop in the death rate was to be expected, but Danya didn't want to drag things out; every day here was a new risk, after all. Fortunately, the power to push motivating forces towards each other was just a few buttons away. "And, of course, no announcement is complete without getting some of you moving. Your school system's physical education is notoriously bad—really, they should be thanking me. "The Coastal Woods, Field of Flowers, and Lake are all open to you again. However, The Lighthouse, The Scorched Ruin, and The Showers remain off-limits, and they'll be joined by The Shipping Yard, The Tunnels, The Parish, The Cliffs, The Old Warehouse, and The Ravine. It's time to get close and act like you love each other. Or kill each other faster! That one works for me, personally. "As always, have a great day and break a leg—your own or somebody else's, as the urge strikes you. I'll speak to those of you still around tomorrow." The speakers clicked off with a note of finality. The Sixth Announcement Friday, June 16, 2017, 10:00 A.M.: Albuquerque, New Mexico "Leo? Leo, open up." Mark Davison rapped on the door again, and again he was met with silence. He tried to let his aggravation out through his knuckles, but was finding it hard. This should've been it. No, this probably was it, their big break. Over a decade struggling along in the hell of semi-independent local television, and now they finally had a scoop so enormous their names would be on every tongue in the country. And yet, the moment was being sullied by one of the only others who'd been here from the start. "I'm coming in," Davison said, his master key already in the lock. "If you aren't decent, get so." The door creaked open, revealing a room shrouded in darkness. The desk in the corner was overturned, papers scattered everywhere, piles of fabric—costumes and set dressing, he presumed—strewn across the floor. Davison groped around the left side of the door for a moment before he found the light switch. When he flicked it on, he saw that the room was in even worse condition than he'd at first assumed, the drapes spattered with what he hoped was just coffee. One thing, however, he'd been wrong about: what had looked at first like just another pile of props was in fact the only upright chair in the room, turned away from the door and occupied by a hefty figure in a Stetson hat. "Dahnke?" Davison said, stepping forward. "Dahnke ain't here right now," came the drawled, over-acted response. "Only The Sheriff." Davison sighed, trying to parse his feelings into order by supremacy. What was strongest? His irritation, his relief, or the wiggling nervousness? "Dahnke," Davison said, "you're not in trouble. This has nothing to do with—" "I told you," the man said, heaving himself out of the chair and turning, "ain't no 'Dahnke' here." Leonardo Dahnke was a somewhat portly man, not overly tall, but he hadn't gone straight from acting school to Broadway for nothing. In fact, if his career hadn't terminated just as suddenly due to that... incident, Davison thought the man would be a star today. As it was, though, he was here at the station, bringing the weather and the local news to the citizens of Albuquerque in the titular character of a segment called Straight Shooting with the Sheriff. "Alright," Davison said. "Alright. We'll do it your way, Mr. Sheriff." "Good." Dahnke straightened the bronze badge he wore. He was decked out entirely in-character, blue jeans and cowboy boots and grey vest and matching Stetson and tan duster and—of course—preposterously huge false mustache. "Mr. Sheriff," Davison said, "what will it take for you to chill the hell out?" "I'm chill," Dahnke said. "I ain't not chill." Davison looked around the room, exaggeratedly, finally sweeping his hand around to gesture at the mess. Dahnke looked at the fallen furniture and scattered props and mysterious spatters, and for just a second his expression turned sheepish and his eyes widened like he was seeing it for the first time. Then his face went steely. "Looks like some miscreants have been in town," Davison said. "I'll, uh, I'll look into it." Dahnke cleared his throat and tugged on his belt. Davison's eyes were drawn immediately to the revolver holstered there. It was just the same cap gun they used every day... right? "Listen, Sheriff," he said, forcing firmness he didn't quite feel into his tone. "It's one day. Just one day." "Maybe to you." Davison raised his eyebrow, inviting elaboration. "I've been running this rodeo for, for, how many years now?" "Yeah," Davison said. "I know. I've been... governor the whole time." "Have I ever missed a day? A single day? When I was sick? When my father passed?" Davison sighed. "No, sir, you have not missed a day." "And now, now you pull me from the air, and you think the citizens won't panic? You think order can reign in this town?" "It's a scoop," Davison snapped back. All of a sudden, now that he had a better idea what this was about, he found his patience evaporating. Irritation, oh yes, that was sitting at the top of the hierarchy. "Do you have any idea how big this is, Dahnke? Nobody else has this. If it weren't going live right now, do you know what that guy would be doing? He'd be taking it to, to the government, the FBI or something. Or, fuck, the Associated Press." He spat that name like it was venom. "The whole world wants to know where those kids are. But it doesn't. Unless it tunes in to our channel, and sees the images our source found on satellite. This is huge, Dahnke, and it'll last. Everyone will know us, know you." He tried not to think about the other little details, the potential for backlash. Strictly speaking, rushing an unsubstantiated scoop on an ongoing terrorist attack to press without checking in with any government agencies or bothering to confirm was probably not an entirely ethical choice, even if no other reasonable situation presented itself. It would create confusion, tie the hands of the authorities or potentially even jeopardize operations already in order, but anyone who had a problem with it could go to Hell, right along with all those dead kids and Leonardo Dahnke. Mark Davison had put far, far too much time and sweat and money into this, and nothing was going to be allowed to ruin his chance at getting his shows into more homes. Nothing. "I..." Dahnke mumbled, "I thought I told y'all. Dahnke ain't..." "Oh, stuff it," Davison said. "Follow me. We'll get you on for a few before ads and maybe get you a cameo in the afternoon news. You'll keep your streak. Now stop being such a prima donna." Dahnke thought, for just a moment, and then he tugged on his belt again, hiking his pants up, and shot Davison a solemn nod. "Alright," he said. "I'll let it go just this once, partner." Friday, June 16, 2017, 9:00 A.M.: Undisclosed Location "Hello, hello, hello once again, children." Danya's voice radiated satisfaction as it echoed across the island. "A lovely morning to those of you still listening. I'm very pleased to announce that after your earlier slow showing, you really picked up the pace yesterday! That's very good. I was starting to worry you lot were losing motivation. "Fortunately, some of you stepped up to prove me wrong. Let's go over yesterday's highs and lows, shall we?" The sound of Danya's fingers drumming on his desk was faintly audible over the intercom. "Starting us off with a real cautionary tale about losing motivation, Theodore Fletcher went for a swim in the lake and never came up for air. For those of you considering doing the same: get it over with sooner rather than later, hm? You're only dragging things out and making them more painful for anyone who actually cares about your sorry selves. "Now, on to the fun stuff. Wendy Fischer sang Yumi Nunes to sleep and then made sure she would never wake up with a bullet to the head. Miss Fischer's got quite the interesting little memorial set up down at the tar pits, if any of you feel like dropping by to pay your respects. "Then, Katarina Konipaski and Michael Crowe took each other out in a duel that would make any action movie jealous. I'm sure it's how they both would have wanted to go. "Meanwhile, Scarlett McAfee wreaked some bloody vengeance on Miranda Millers with an icepick, and finished her off with a shot to the head when that wasn't enough. Not to worry, though; Miss Millers was soon avenged when Saachi Nidal showed up and blew a hole through McAfee." Danya clicked his tongue. It was impossible to say if it was in disappointment or just for effect. "Saachi also scored a second point for the day by blowing away Natali Greer—that actually happened before the thing with McAfee, but you have to preserve flow, you know? Anyways, I do so admire your work ethic, Miss Nidal. I'm sure you're quite the inspiration for the rest of your classmates, too. "For those of you looking to follow her example, remember that a late start is better than none. Irene Djezari took this to heart and gave us another display of marksmanship by spearing Roy Benson. Anyone else looking to make up for lost time should do so soon; numbers are dwindling, and you do need that one kill if you want to reap the ultimate reward. Danya glanced down at the next name on his list and chuckled. "And now we're back to the bloodbath at the lake. Katarina Konipaski struck from beyond the grave when Kyran Dean succumbed to the wounds she gave him. One for the road, eh?" The microphone caught a quiet sigh as Danya reached the end of his list; the kids really had done quite a number on each other in the last day. He really ought to give his voice a rest with a nice drink this evening. He'd earned a little "me" time with all the work he had been putting in. "And finally, we close out today's announcement by honoring Brandon Baxter and Keiji Tanaka, who did everyone a favor by confirming that yes, knives are still sharp and the Danger Zones still work. Thank you, boys. We won't forget your service. "We're down to the wire now, folks. You know what that means: fewer places to hide from each other. Rather than listing off everywhere that will make your head explode, how about I tell you where you can go, mm? Effective immediately, you are constrained to The Field of Flowers, The Tar Pits, The Mess Hall, The Scorched Ruin, and The Shipping Yard, along with the open ground connecting those areas. If you're the lucky one to make it out, do look it up on satellite later—we've set up the safe zone to resemble a certain toy that is oh-so-popular these days. "Oh, one last thing: do hurry up and finish each other off quickly. Not to name names, but a certain masked menace who is no longer with us set quite a number of fires, and I'm afraid it's stirring some interest from people who aren't invited to our little party. And let me be clear: if anyone turns up to ruin things, all of you will die. "Ta ta." The Seventh Announcement Saturday, June 17, 2017, 02:45 A.M.: Undisclosed Location The night lay still and heavy. Motionless. Silent, except for the constant shriek of tinnitus, the intermittent tapping of keys. Sentences written. Sentences erased. Phrases washing in, words washing out, concepts precipitating into an uneven landscape. It was an arduous process despite his own rhetorical thrust about how he'd faced far worse acts of impromptu surgery than letting niceties become offal in the name of efficient communication. Followed up, of course, by a calculated weighing of how snide one could be to a recipient against the anticipated value of the response. But, well, words were just words. And there was one question he did wish to answer. The question weighing on every soul in the nation. The one that, under its own diplomatic veil, formed the core of the entire mountain of requests he'd received: Was Survival of the Fittest back? He understood. He really did. The fear, the uncertainty, the absolute maddening helplessness. And one person, exactly one, who had the experience of riding the sinking ship down from its bridge. Surely the uniqueness of his position afforded him some singular insight? Perhaps it really did, if not the sort everyone wanted. Because of course they hadn't the experience to look elsewhere. So, was this a repeat tragedy? Another attack? A followup by the same organization? He hadn't the ability to say, though his gut twisted to think on the promise he'd received, the only thing he'd ever kept truly private. Was this Survival of the Fittest? A different question, the ultimate answer to which still lay in the hands of the people. To temper hope and accept confirmation as total disaster, that was his message. A desperate plea he knew would go ignored. To let families grieve in peace and to leave space for one fractured life to find its way back wherever it fit. To honor memories not by dragging names though the 24-hour outrage cycle but by working to never allow it to happen again. The list of requests was long, and growing ever longer. Whoever delivered it, he didn't care. They were all complicit. So he'd let the cold, uncaring universe decide. Quite literally cold; the cosmic microwave background radiation was only a few Kelvin, and the best random number generators pulled from it. He brought one up and let his cursor hover over the button. Trillions of possibilities passed beneath his finger. He snatched one, and wrote it down. For a moment he considered clicking again, but the absurdity of it made his face flash with what passed for a smile these days. One photon out of the uncounted multitudes shot through 14 billion years and captured for the purposes of avoiding even the most minute emotional attachment to a decision. He wasn't about to look such a profoundly random and impersonal gift horse in the mouth. A few provisions to copy off—exclusive rights, to be read in its entirety or not at all and so forth—and it was done. He shut off the screen's ghastly light and leaned back, closing his eyes. The night was still and silent again, save the endless ringing in his ears. Saturday, June 17, 2017, Unknown Time: Undisclosed Location The marine stood on the rear deck of the small boat, hands on the railing as he looked down into the water. The island would have been in sight, if he wasn't here. If it weren't for these nerves, if it weren't for his hands shaking on the railing, he would be with the rest of his platoon, nervously chatting about that small dot on the horizon. Questioning just what might await on it. He looked at the water—the straight white line that had been churned out by the motor trailed them for some distance before dissipating—and took a breath, tried to pull those butterflies out of his stomach. When they still remained, when it became clear that just breathing wasn't going to do it, he brought his eyes closer to the railing. Grabbed onto it harder, to try and see whether that stilled his hands or not. At the very least, being here wouldn't make him seasick. Until the captain came to put him into order, he could stay here, for better or worse. They were here because of a call from the… fire brigade, environmental police, whoever the fuck. Some old mining island—some place that hadn't been used in… twenty years? Thirty?—had burst into flame during the last couple of days, and this environmental nonprofit or whatever wanted to go there and put it out, prevent bad shit being done to the ozone layer. Problem was, there was something unusual about the patterns of the fire. Whoever—or whatever—had started the blaze had made it so that they resembled a lopsided smiley face. That suggested foul play. It implied there was something going on, so the Navy denied permission to the fire hippies until it could have a look-see of its own. And, of course, get some guns on the scene just in case there was something serious going on. Personally, Jaxon Jeremiah was under the impression that the whole smiley face thing was a weird coincidence (like all the wacky disaster shit that'd been on the news) but he couldn't help but worry that it wasn't. He couldn't help but fret over the possibility of this being something else—something far more malicious. He could hear the footsteps behind him. He was pretty sure of who was approaching him already. "Commander Jeremiah." Yep. Right on the mark. "Captain Grossi." The rush of the waves and the roar of the boat were the only sounds as Jaxon kept staring into the waves. He couldn't really tell for sure what the captain was doing, but given that it was Grossi, Jaxon imagined that a new asshole was being stared into him right about now. The pause continued, for a couple of seconds. The captain was the first to break the silence. "Why have you broken off from the rest of the platoon?" Jaxon didn't respond, for a few seconds. Figured he'd try and get more words out from the captain. Given he was already in trouble he may as well use the opportunity to fuck with Grossi mo— Eh. Grossi probably wouldn't even notice it. May as well stop wasting time. "...Nerves," he said, not looking back. "I know that we're probably not needed here, but…" He paused. "I don't know. Just can't help but have the feeling that there's gonna be something there, captain." "I understand," Grossi said. The silence between the two held. Jaxon didn't really have anything to say. He figured that in time he'd be told to head back to his position but he figured he could wait a little until then. Enjoy the view of the endless ocean, or some shit like that. "If it helps," Grossi continued, "I'm feeling the same way." Huh. That was a surprise. "How so, captain?" A pause. "Just got a feeling that there's gonna be something on that island none of us will like." That got a brief chuckle out. "Wanna bet on what it is?" "Probably just some rich kids who decided to spend their spring break here, accidentally set the whole place ablaze," Grossi said, moving next to Jaxon on the railing and placing his hands down onto it. "If I were to be paranoid, though…" He paused. Looked down into the ocean before looking directly at Jaxon. "You remember Survival of the Fittest?" That was… "The thing five years ago?" "If I wanted to make a bigger bet, I'd say it's happening again," Grossi replied. "There was a bus full of kids in New Jersey that disappeared a couple days ago. Nobody knows where they all went." A pause. "So you think that that's what happened to that bus? You think they're back?" Jaxon asked. "It's what all the people on the internet are saying, at least. And there are some rumblings from up the ladder. Some army spook called Adams is back in the spotlight." "Right." The two of them stopped speaking again. This time, Jaxon was the one to break the silence. "You think we'll get there in time? You think we're gonna save anyone?" "I don't know," Grossi replied. "We've got no clue what we're going into." "Right." Jaxon stood upright. Looked to the horizon behind him, rather than the sea. "How close are we?" "About ten minutes from our destination," Grossi said. "Get to your platoon, commander." "Aye-aye, captain," Jaxon said, letting go of the railing and turning around. "Don't call me captain, by the way." "Aye-aye, captain." Friday, June 16, 2017, 02:00 P.M.: Saint Paul, Minnesota As she led her visitor down the halls of Aurora Bay High School, Mrs. Bishop couldn't shake this little niggling of discomfort, and she also couldn't quite put her finger on its origin. This latter point, she thought, was what was making it so close to intolerable. She'd been late—again and of course, she tried really hard to be on time but the seconds and minutes just slipped away from her and before she knew it she was once again just a little tardy—but that hadn't seemed to have much impact on the man she'd been sent to meet. Nothing did. Maybe, then, the source of her discomfort was something related to him. She hoped not, because that would be personally uncomfortable. The man was huge, heavyset but in a muscular way, head completely shaved; he looked, she thought, like a beefier Samuel L. Jackson, except for his eyes, which were an odd pale green. She'd never known African-Americans could have eyes like that, and of course that immediately both made her feel racist and made her wonder if maybe he had some mixed ancestry. "And, uh, and this is the math wing," she said. Situated on the second floor, the math wing was also home to some of the lab rooms for science classes, and as such the floor was tile and easy to clean. It wasn't only chemicals that had been cleaned up here, but Mrs. Bishop wasn't about to talk about the other things she'd seen, the blood from broken or dry noses, the time someone had actually managed to pee in the hall in the middle of passing period without being noticed. She was supposed to be selling their guest on this job. He wasn't showing much enthusiasm, though. His eyes slowly moved over everything, his lips quirked into the barest hint of a smile, but he rarely spoke. When he did, his voice was quiet but strong. Mrs. Bishop had a little synaesthesia going on with it, in that she had this inescapable idea that it was a large voice being made to pretend it was small. "Do you..." she paused, swallowed, stopped walking. What was it that was making her so nervous? "Do you have any questions?" "Why is this position open?" She swallowed again. He knew, had to know, at least the official story. But then, wasn't this tour about giving him a teacher's-level view? He was trying to suss out whether there were any omissions, and of course there were, and Mrs. Bishop found herself more and more regretful of having agreed to have anything to do with this. "The old—I mean, Principal Kendrick, he was involved in an accident," she said. "A car accident. He passed away." "The students must be very sad?" His tone conveyed some doubts, and almost unwillingly, Mrs. Bishop felt herself being drawn in. "They're... shaken. He was stern but fair, but that doesn't make you popular, you know. I mean," and here she quickly corrected herself, "it can. But he wasn't a particularly... he sometimes struggled to relate. But they're shaken by his passing. It changes the situation." "Are the kids rowdy?" This was the most he'd spoken in the hour-long tour, and the focus was throwing Mrs. Bishop off-balance. "I can be a disciplinarian, but I do not always enjoy the role." "Some are." Blood, pee, so many crushed cartons of milk. "Most aren't." "You might be surprised." "What?" He shrugged. "Sometimes, it's the ones who seem quiet." He did not elaborate further, but started to walk again, and now Mrs. Bishop had to jog to follow, and as she did she figured it out. It was his footsteps. He was a large man, and each step of his was clearly audible, but they didn't quite match. They were precise, pointed even, almost calculated. She got the impression that he could be much quieter if he so chose. That actually made her feel better, on contemplation. He was sneaky, the sort of man who would appear behind a troublemaker and haul them up by their collar without them ever knowing he was there. A good trait to have in a school official. And it meant she wasn't unnerved for racist reasons. Thus lightened, she pulled abreast of him. "Do you," she said, then took a big breath and continued with a slightly different phrasing, "you're very qualified, and we desperately need someone. It may be a bit forward, but I think the superintendent will arrange an offer for you." "I might like that." "I think it has a nice ring to it," she said. "Principal Melvin Carter." Friday, June 17, 2017, 7:00 P.M.: Undisclosed Location A kind of peace had slowly settled over the island. The calm before a storm, perhaps, or the beginnings of a quiet slide into the end. Things seemed capable of swinging either way. Victor Danya certainly knew which he would prefer, but at the end of the day, he would be satisfied knowing that he had done his job and done it well. "Good evening, children." He paused for just a moment after the greeting to let the sense of finality sink in. "This is an emotional time for all of us, I'm sure. For all but one of you, this will be the last time that you hear my voice. For all of us here at the AT, it's the last day before another long break. "Oh, that's not to imply that we won't be working just as hard off the air. You kids have put on such an impressive show. It would be a shame if we didn't all keep trying to top ourselves, hm?" A threat, but not a promise. Not yet. Keep them guessing, on and off the island. The truth was, most of the time even Danya didn't know for sure what would happen next. Fortunately, he valued a degree of spontaneity. "So without further ado, let's see who fell just short of the finish line. "Proving that some people only got this far through luck rather than smarts, Soren Rosendahl didn't jump when Saachi Nidal told him to, and he took a bullet for his transgression. Fret not, Mr. Rosendahl; Miss Nidal's past caught up with her soon after in the form of Chuck Soileaux and a crossbow. Better late than never on that initiative, I suppose. "Oh, and somewhere between those two, Dan Liu tripped and hit his head. Let this be a lesson to the few of you remaining about making sure your shoes are tied and watching your step. We don't want an anticlimax on our hands." Danya snorted derisively before continuing on down the list. "Kitty Gittschall also caught a few bullets, but in a surprise twist, that wasn't what finished her off. Instead, Wendy Fischer swooped in for a coup de grace via baseball bat. "Elsewhere, Tina Luz keeled over after not picking her battles carefully enough and sustaining a few too many injuries over the past week. Cody Jenkins met a similar fate when he decided to challenge gravity itself. You lot certainly have been generous to any future scientists who go digging in those tar pits. "And to bring things to a close on our penultimate day, there was a scenic little shootout in the flower field. Irene Djezari didn't watch where her weapon was pointed and she did Daniel Whitten in, but not before Bunny Barlowe did the same for her and also popped Jonathan Lancer for good measure." Danya heaved a great sigh, part satisfaction and part wistfulness. "And with all that out of the way, there's just the last few of you to address. "Maxwell Lombardi, you've stuck to your guns—at least metaphorically. There's nobody left to hide behind or to throw your life away for now, so why not do what you know you've got to do since you're the only one of our finalists who lacks a kill? Mr. Soileaux found his trigger finger, and since you know what'll happen if you don't, I'm confident that you can do the same. "And speaking of, Chuck Soileaux, you're certainly full of big ideas and spirit. Maybe those will last you a little bit longer, but I'd just as soon see you rely on that crossbow now that you've finally figured out how to use it. "Bunny Barlowe, you certainly haven't needed any help in figuring out your way around a gun or two, but you haven't been very wise about picking your battles either. Out of all our finalists, only one can match your body count, and I imagine most of them will be coming for your head. You had best come prepared if you don't want this to be your final curtain call. "Kris Hartmann, you're certainly an enigma. You've gotten through the game so far with stealth and no small amount of luck; can you maintain when your enemies know you're coming? I kind of doubt it, but I'll be watching all the same. "And last, but certainly not least, we have one more femme fatale in Wendy Fischer. That dumb blonde act of yours sure is cute, Miss Fischer, but everyone left knows what's lurking underneath it all. You're going to have to drop the sugar and spice and embrace the killer that you truly are if you want to make it home. "And there you have it. Five enter, one leaves. It's Thunderdome time, kids. Get yourselves down to The Shipping Yard ASAP if you don't want to go out a chump, and I'll be waiting to congratulate one of you when the dust settles. "Good night, and good luck!" Category:Announcements Category:Second Chances